“The love between a writer and a reader is never celebrated.”
Once they are buried under dirt, people become place. Flesh becomes earth, geography. They become enmapped, acquire fixed coordinates. That afternoon, she would be going to see her father, that patch of soil to the left of the cemetery entrance, third row. A momentary spasm took hold of her left eye. She slapped it shut.
How can I express in words the overwhelming expanse of the absence of feeling that I find myself in.
There’s a place
In the woods
Where the dead come alive
And the living melt into the foliage.
Why write? he thought.
There’s enough ink on paper, already.
How can a word simultaneously hold within it innumerable worlds and something as intimate as a single touch, many years ago? A sense of self and calm, several waking nightmares ago.
Anna’s toes dug into the earth of the dead zone, her ankles trespassing into the no man’s land snaking across the island from east to west. Her breasts, that lay safely within government-controlled territory, were cushioned by the gentle slopes of dry weeds collapsing onto the torrid landscape.
Της άρεσε εκείνη η ψύχρα του πρωινού που έκανε τα καλοκαίρια στο χωριό. Είχε χίλιους λόγους να μην το επισκέπτεται, αλλά η ψύχρα εκείνη, ειδικά όταν ξυπνούσε πριν απ’ όλους, ήταν σαν να έφερνε το χωριό στα μέτρα της.
Αλλά το τηλέφωνο μας εννά σταματήσει να χτυπά; Εγώ νομίζω οτι κάποιος εννά μας ψάχνει τζι’εμάς. Για να μοιραστεί τζιαι τζείνος την απελπισία τζιαι την απόλυτη πλήξη του να ζεις ακόμα,
πολλά μετά την τελευταία μέρα της ζωής σου.
Time flows, wild and untamed like a river. It sweeps people off their feet, dragging them along its path, merciless and free, spreading them apart through cliffs and streams. Those who survive, stand the test of time. Those who survive, live to call the rest history.
As the world closed in, the sunflowers bloomed.
Norwegian Wood is about travelling. It is about first love and unrequited love. It is about loving one’s self, and especially about loving life. It is about redemption, never giving up, and about being able to let go. It is one of those stories that echo through infinity and remind us that the power of written word can lift us up even when we are feeling sad or depressed.
She finds the galloping clock
Funny and I couldn’t
For the life of me
Laugh at something
So strikingly serious
Πως αντιδρούσαν οι άνθρωποι του πνεύματος στο καθεστώς του Λάγκερ, σε σχέση με τους υπόλοιπους; Σε ποιο βαθμό η πνευματική καλλιέργειά τους, η μόρφωση και η τέχνη μπορούσαν να αποτελέσουν καταφύγιο; Εν τέλει, ποια ήταν η αντίδραση του διανοούμενου μέσα σε συνθήκες απόλυτης εξαθλίωσης;
‘Poetry can be a wholly creative process. It has the potential of creating worlds that can be nothing other than the product of the poet’s imagination. Photography, instead, is a transformative process. It can only deal with real things. As such it is often confused with reality itself. But, then, it has an enormous transformative potential. Both, though, are fascinating forms of story-telling which is, after all, the cornerstone of human civilisation.’
As cliché as the title may sound, I tend to place a lot of emphasis on book covers. A book cover has the power to create a positive or negative presentiment about a book even before I start flipping its pages. Through that first visual encounter, book covers can act as trustworthy predictors of our potential enjoyment or hatred of a book.
The mother dies. Or maybe she kills herself. Or maybe she is killed. The father locks the two-year-old child in a room. Covers up the windows. The father believes that the child, deprived of language, will begin to speak the language of God.
This unreal country 